Renovation
by 1Styx and Stones1
Summary: A fluffy one-shot involving men who smell like barbecue potato chips and can't plumb, an oblivious Tony, an internet-dependent Ziva, pizza, and a guest appearance from Tony's clingy girlfriend, which doesn't end well...unless you're a Tiva fan, of course


**(To be sung to the tune of the bumpity-bump-bump part of Frosty the Snowman) Fluffity-fluff-fluff, fluffity-fluff-fluff . . . Inspired by a disastrous painting job that I was involved in yesterday . . . does anyone know how to get large quantities of paint off skin? **

**Disclaimer: All I've got is the stomach flu. And, let me tell you, that's no fun**

"Hello?"

_"_Ziva, I know you said to stop calling, but this is an emergency!"

Ziva sighed. "What is it now, Tony?"

"How do you put the stupid pad on the stupid roller?"_  
><em>

Another sigh, even more exasperated than the first. "Tony, I have already told you. I do not know anything about painting."

"Then how come you knew the answer to my last question?" he challenges.

"It is common sense."

"I have plenty of common sense," he scoffs, "and I couldn't figure out how to open the can."_  
><em>

"Alright. So I looked it up on the internet," she admits, "but-"

"Great. Can you look up how to put the pad on the roller, too_?"_Tony asks eagerly.

"Why do you not look it up yourself?" she returns irritably.

"My computer's covered with plastic sheets. Heck, my whole house is covered in plastic sheets, Zi. I can't even reach the refrigerator!"_  
><em>

She frowns, getting a sneaking feeling that she might have an uninvited guest for dinner. "Alright. I will look it up," she sighs finally, and reaches for her laptop.

Ten minutes later the phone rings again. Ziva contemplates ignoring it, or - better yet - throwing something at, but her irritating conscience - since when has she had a conscience anyway? - finally gets the better of her.  
>"<em>What<em>, Tony?" she growls into the phone.

"Ziva?"_  
><em>

"What?"

"Would you possibly know how to get paint spills out of a rug?"_  
><em>

Ziva closes her eyes and strangles the nearest couch cushion brutally. "How much paint, Tony?"

". . . A lot."_  
><em>

She sighs, curses her newly-developed conscience, and goes to find her coat. "I will be right over."

...

"You are a lifesaver, Ziva David," Tony says, opening the door and ushering her in. Ziva, who at the moment is more interested in _taking _lives, particularly Tony's own, rather than saving them, only fixes her partner with a look of supreme irritation.

"Where is the paint?"

Tony throws open the door to his spare bedroom with a flourish. Ziva can only stare at the disaster that lies within, attempting to fathom how a grown man could create such wreckage in all of ten minutes.

Tony grimaces and leans against the doorjamb, watching Ziva take in his handiwork with an expression akin to disgust. Feeling a bit embarrassed, although his inner toddler can't help but revel at the mess, he waits anxiously for his partner to pronounce the verdict.

"I never liked that rug anyway," Ziva declares finally, turning to face him. He makes a face.

"There's no saving it?"

"I think you called in the wrong person for this job." She smirks. "You would need _Ducky _to revive that carpet."

Tony makes a face. "I couldn't ask _Ducky_. That would just be . . . weird. And, as great as Abby may be, she'd probably end up talking me into painting my spare room black. And McGee probably still has his parents make his bed for him each morning, so he was out of the question."

"You could have asked Gibbs," Ziva suggests with a straight face. Tony looks at her, unsure whether or not to take this proposition as a joke.

"Yeah, because I really want my boss to see firsthand that his Senior Field Agent isn't even self-sufficient enough to paint his own room."

"And so I am the lucky winner?" Ziva curses her luck and Tony's fairly rational process of elimination. All his points are valid; though, it could be argued, the fact that her idea of spring cleaning involves polishing her weapons does not make her a likely candidate either.

Tony shrugs. "Plus, you know, you're the best cook of the bunch, and after all this hard work I'm going to need some major comfort food."

And suddenly Ziva has herself a dinner guest. This day is just getting better and better.

"I invited you to dinner?" she asks, raising an eyebrow and fixing him with a look that would once have had him shaking in his . . . socks? Now, he just grins and pretends to act surprised,

"Why, Ziva, I'd love to come over for dinner! I would even offer to bring a bottle of wine, if my liquor wasn't-"

"Covered in plastic sheets," Ziva finished exasperatedly. "I know. It does not matter, as I was only planning on pizza in the first place."

Tony nods approvingly. "It may not be gourmet, but I'll eat anything after all this work."

She raises an eyebrow questioningly. "What hard work? So far, all you have managed to do is rack up a massive phone bill and spill paint all over your rug."

"It wasn't my fault!" he protests, feeling remarkably idiotic and not particularly liking the sensation. "Paint pours out of the can really fast!"

Ziva sighs and looks back at the puddle of beige that is fast soaking its way into the rather ugly pale blue rug. "What happened to the plastic sheets that were 'covering everything?'"

"You're supposed to put them on the floor, too?" Tony asks blankly. Ziva sighs again. Tony wonders if she has a respiratory condition that is causing her to breathe so noisily.

"Go find your laptop," she instructs, opening her eyes. "We will see if there is anything we can do to salvage your rug."

She doesn't sound particularly hopeful, but Tony does as he's told, rather than risk death-by-ninja.

After a few minutes of rummaging, he procures his Mac. Ziva takes it from him, them looks him up and down critically. "Go get changed into something that is not splattered in paint. I will see what I can do about your rug."

When he returns, relatively paint-free, though there is a particularly stubborn blotch on his chin that refuses to wash off, he finds that Ziva has removed the plastic tarp that covered his couch, and is curled up with his laptop.

"You're gonna get dust on my couch," he scolds, sitting down beside her and gesturing to the abandoned tarp. She shrugs.

"You are not even painting in here yet."

"Yeah, but the ceiling-" He gestures to his ceiling or, rather, the lack thereof. "It's a crumbly mess. I sneezed last night, and a whole clod of plaster smashed down."

"You _do_ sneeze at a ridiculous volume," she allows. He frowns.

"Do not."

"Why are you missing a ceiling in the first place, Tony?"

"Water damage. Stupid guy above me burst a pipe and was too cheap to call a plumber. He spent two hours trying to fix the thing, messed it up even more, and flooded his apartment." Tony chuckles. "I fell asleep on the couch and woke up in a rainstorm."

"You did not offer to help with his pipes?" she chides.

Tony rolls his eyes. "Zi, it was two in the morning. I don't even like that guy. He always smells funny - like barbecue potato chips - and he steals my newspaper on days that I stay over at the office. Why would I go help him?"

"So that your ceiling would not collapse?" she suggests dryly.

He scowls, irritated that her point is so logical. "I didn't know that it was going to ruin my whole apartment! Besides, now at least I have an excuse to repaint. I don't know what I was thinking when I picked that color green."

"Did you not paint your own apartment last time?" Ziva questions. "Why did it go so smoothly then, and not now? Has your memory regressed in your old age?"

Tony scowls. "Funny. Actually, no. Last time, one of my girlfriends did it for me. She was the one who talked me into that green, now that I mention it." He shuddered. "Creepy girl, creepy taste in paint colors."

"Your girlfriend?" she repeats amusedly, clicking into another website on the laptop. Tony shrugs.

"She was the do-it-yourself type. You know, all full of charity events and yoga classes and compost heaps." His brow wrinkles, just thinking of Project: Compost Heap. "She did make good cookies, though," he remembers, this time a bit more fondly.

Ziva rolls her eyes and turns off the computer. "I know how to make cookies."

Just the thought makes Tony's stomach grumble and his eyes light up. "I know. Maybe we could skip pizza and head straight for-" He stops as Ziva begins to pull on her coat. "Where are you going? What happened to fixing my rug? And my cookies?"

He stands and makes for the door, as if to head her off. Those cookies are sounding better and better by the second, and he can't afford to let his sole source of baked goodness get away.

"We are going to find a more attractive paint color and some paint remover," Ziva answers, tossing him his own coat. "And if you are good, we can pick up some ingredients for cookies."

Tony hurries to pull on his coat. "Okay, what if we got the ingredients first, and then went home and made the cookies. Or - what if I go and get the paint and you make me the cookies, and-"

"Of course," Ziva says slyly, "I could always just go-"

"Oh, no," Tony says firmly, grabbing his partner by the arm. "You are not going anywhere, Miss David."

Ziva laughs and leads her partner out the door.

…

An hour and a half later, the two return, toting buckets of paint, cookie ingredients, and some mysterious utensils with which to tear up Tony's rug, which has been determined beyond help by the friendly people at Home Depot.

"Cookies?" Tony prompts. Ziva shakes her head, and his face falls.

"Later," she promises. "First, I am going to look up some instructions on how to paint a wall while you find me something to wear."

"To wear?" he repeats blankly. She rolls her eyes.

"Yes, Tony. To wear. I do not wish to destroy my favorite shirt with your stupid paint."

"_My _stupid paint?" he echoes indignantly. "Who's the one who picked it out?"

"It is a pretty shade of blue," she answers defensively. "And unless you want to go cookie-less tonight, I would suggest you agree."

"It's a _very_ pretty shade of blue," he promptly agrees. She smiles.

"Good boy. Now, go find me some clothes."

Tony returns with an old t-shirt and some basketball shorts. "What do you got, David?" he asks in his best imitation of their fearless leader. Ziva rolls her eyes.

"Do not embarrass yourself," she chides. "I will go get changed. You read this article."

"What kind of sad person writes articles on how to paint?" Tony wonders, pulling up a chair at the kitchen table, which is also without its protective covering.

"A person smart enough to know that there are sad people out there who do not know how to paint a wall," Ziva replies, taking the clothes and starting down the hall.

"Well if that isn't a pot calling the kettle black," Tony mutters, shaking his head and beginning to read.

Ziva turns back with a puzzled frown. "That does not make any sense. Why are the kitchen utensils racist?"

Tony smirks. "Never mind, Zee-vah."

…

Two hours later, and the room is nearly half-covered in paint. Tony and Ziva are completely covered. "I feel like Michelangelo," Tony remarks from his perch on a ladder that he stole from his newspaper-snitching, pipe-busting neighbor.

"You do not _look_ like Michelangelo," Ziva responds wryly.

Tony makes a face and flicks his brush at her. "Yeah, well, you're no Mona Lisa either, David, so-"

"Mona Lisa was not painted by Michelangelo, Tony."

Tony grimaces. Arguing is not fun when your combat partner always wins. As he doesn't have an answer that won't dig him deeper into the hole in his brain where his knowledge of arts is supposed to be, he shuts up and focuses on trying not to drip paint into his face. He is only moderately successful.

"You have a paint beard," Ziva informs him when he climbs down the ladder to pull off his shirt, now nearly unrecognizable thanks to his drippy paint brush.

"_Now_ do I look like Michelangelo?" he teases, striking a dramatic pose and pretending to stroke his faux-facial hair.

Ziva crinkles her nose. "No. Now you look like Santa Claus."

Just then the doorbell rings. "That'll be the pizza," Tony says, putting down his brush and starting for the door. "Where's your wallet, Zi? Mine's covered in plastic sheets."

"Of course it is." She rolls her eyes and wipes her hands on Tony's shirt before digging through her purse.

The doorbell rings again just as Tony reaches for the doorknob. Tony frowns. Either the pizza boy's impatient, or there's someone else at the door. A peek through the peephole in the door proves the latter theory correct.

Unless the pizza boy is a pretty brunette wearing tight designer jeans and an irritable expression, they have another visitor. And Tony, sadly, knows who it is.

"Hey, Melanie," he says, swinging open the door to reveal his most recent girlfriend. "What's up?"

Melanie eyes Tony's shirtless torso suspiciously. "I was at the pizzeria, picking up a pie for us," she says, gesturing to the small box she holds in her free hand, "when I heard someone call in an order for your address. Who do you have over?"

Tony grimaces and tries to find an explanation that Melanie won't get angry about. This is rather difficult, as Melanie tends to be a bit . . . high-strung. "Well, I told you about that idiot who ruined my ceiling, right? So I'm painting."

"Just because you're painting doesn't mean you order two large pies," she says flatly. Tony just stops himself from rolling his eyes at his girlfriend's overly hostile approach to the idea that he may have a life that doesn't involve her.

"That would be because Ziva eats like a horse," he says, gesturing to Ziva, who is still standing by the couch, one hand in her purse, chocolate brown eyes taking in the situation amusedly. The amusement fades into indignance at his comment.

"I do not!"

"Who is _she_?" Melanie demands, not even trying to disguise the anger in her voice. "And why is she wearing your clothes?"

"I did not wish to get my own covered in paint," Ziva explains calmly, coming forward with an outstretched hand. "I am Ziva David, Tony's partner."

"Partner?" Melanie repeats, brows drawing together in confusion.

"At work," Tony explains, putting a hand on Melanie's back and guiding her towards the door. "I'm kind of a mess right now, Mel. How about tomorrow?"

"But I have pizza." Melanie pouts. "And I wanted to talk to you about something important. My lease is almost up, Tony, and-"

And just like that the entire relationship is over, in Tony's mind. The first mention of commitment, and he balks. "You know what, Melanie? I don't know about tomorrow either. I'm not really in the market for a long-term relationship right now-"

"What?" Melanie's hands fly to her hips. The box of pizza falls to the floor, unheeded.

"You're dumping me?" she asks, horror and disbelief dripping from every word. "For _her_?"

"Um, yes. No. I mean, _yes_, I'm dumping you. _No_, not for-"

Melanie kicks Tony swiftly in the shin and storms out, high heels clicking indignantly. The door slams so violently that a shower of plaster falls from the ceiling, making the apartment look like the inside of a snow globe.

Slowly, Tony turns to face Ziva. She looks at him for a moment, dark eyes impossible to read, then bursts into peals of laughter. "She- she kicked you!" she sputtered.

Tony struggles to keep from laughing himself, fixing a pout onto his face instead. "Yeah, and it hurt."

Still laughing, Ziva stoops to pick up the box of pizza that Melanie has abandoned. Her expression sobers as she studies the contents of the box. "It was doomed from the start, Tony," she says solemnly.

Tony can't help but agree, but is curious as to how Ziva has come to this conviction. "And you know that, how, ninja girl?"

Slowly, Ziva turns and displays the contents of the pizza box to him. Two slices of salad pizza.

"You're right," Tony agrees seriously. "It wouldn't have worked out."

"Not in a million years," Ziva says, looking a little too satisfied for Tony to be entirely convinced of his partner's innocence. "Which means, I suppose," she continues slowly, "that you are free tomorrow evening for a real dinner?"

"With cookies?"

Ziva smiles. "But of course."

Tony grins in return. "I'd love to. In fact, I'd even offer to bring a bottle of wine, if my liquor cabinet wasn't covered in plastic sheets."

**My first ever fluffy one-shot! What do you guys think? Should I wrote more of these? **


End file.
